


Old Damage, New Damage

by captkitten



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captkitten/pseuds/captkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon divergence. Wrote this for the Captain Swan Neverland Renaissance as Neverland will forever own my soul. Set sometime after Dark Hollow. Everyone is sticky and huffy and maybe spoiling for a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Damage, New Damage

She can hear his muffled curses from the shore, a litany of sailor jargon and some very unpretty words she has never heard flow from his pretty mouth. She’s not quite sure why she’s here, why she felt compelled to check on him. However, the look he gave her after their trip to the Hollow left an uneasy feeling in her stomach, one that kept gnawing at her after they had returned to camp and he had excused himself to see to the Jolly Roger. Their odd little friendship – or whatever it was – had shifted during their time here. Shifted to what, she’s not sure.

_It will be because you want me._

Her boots sink into the soft sand as she shifts her weight and eyes the ladder hanging over the side of the ship, wondering if she should climb aboard. It’s probably a terrible idea. She’s already on edge after the confrontation with Neal (if you can call talking at someone who doesn’t seem to hear you a confrontation) and the fucking hellish heat of the island isn’t helping her mood. Maybe she’s spoiling for a fight, something – anything -- to expel the gathering storm within her. It’s not her fault the pirate always seems to present the perfect sparring partner.

(Maybe she’s spoiling for something else entirely.)

(For bruising lips and teeth and hands, touching and grasping, causing her temperature to rise in ways even the sticky jungle cannot.)

She quickly pushes those thoughts away.

Fuck it.

She hoists herself up onto the ladder, noticing the gouges and scrapes in the ship’s weathered wood courtesy of the Neverland mermaids as she climbs. As if on cue, she hears him muttering about _bloody overgrown demon fish_ and a small smile curves her lips. But what she sees as she swings over the edge has her pulling up short.

He’s facing the mast, pulling a very tattered sail free from where it hangs limply from the rigging. And he’s shirtless, something she was definitely not prepared for. Jesus. _Jesus_. His back is mapped with scars, a collection of white and pink marks angrily crisscrossing his tan skin as he pulls and stretches. There’s a tattoo she can’t quite make out (a crest maybe?) adorning his shoulder, half-marred by what looks like a burn mark. She wonders what stories accompany the various wounds, what kind of life he must have lived to acquire so many.

A brutal one, apparently.

_You and I, we understand each other._

She’s staring. A floorboard creaks beneath her foot and he whips around to face her, giving her a full view of his front. It’s somehow worse than seeing his scarred back -- the taut, smooth skin dusted with dark hair stretching over lean muscle. Another tattoo crawls up his ribcage, a tentacle of sorts, wrapping up around his shoulder and disappearing down beneath the waist of his pants.

Suddenly, she feels like a tentacle is squeezing the air from her lungs.

“Swan,” he nods in her direction, dropping the sail to reach for the black shirt tossed over the ship’s edge. He seems oddly nervous, pink staining his cheeks and tips of his ears. This is new.

Not quite able to stop herself, she asks. “How—“

He senses the direction of her question and jerks a moody shoulder to cut her off, not meeting her eyes as he shrugs into the black cotton. “I’m a sailor and a pirate, love. Meeting the lash from time to time comes with the territory.”

She doesn’t like that answer -- doesn’t like the image of him tied up and bloody as a whip tears at his skin that swirls into her mind -- but solemn eyes lock onto hers with a look she knows well. _Back off_. So she does, respecting the need to let the past live in the past. She makes a show of looking around the damaged deck, trying to refocus her thoughts.

“You ran off quickly.”

“I had things here that need tending, as you can see. At some point we’re going to want to leave this cursed place and we’ll probably need a ship that can actually sail,” he picks up the ragged sail again, tossing it onto a pile of similar pieces.

Her hackles start to rise at his sardonic tone, but instead guilt creeps like an unwelcome guest. She knows how much his ship means to him, and it doesn’t escape her that he risked a great deal to help them get here. To save her son. The damage they subsequently sustained is bad, leaving the enchanted ship tilted and broken on the shore of the jungle. If only she were better at magic, maybe she could help repair it. Or maybe Regina could?

“Maybe Regina can help fix things, her magic is probably powerful enough to—“

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I’m just trying to help,” she grits out.

“And I’m politely declining to acquiesce,” he bites back.

“Hey. What’s your problem?”

“My problem? _My_ problem? Oh but I haven’t a problem in the world, Swan! It’s not as if I’m standing aboard my broken ship, moored in the place I vowed I never return.”

“I get that,” she pushes on, stepping closer to him. “But we both know there’s something else.”

For a moment he holds his ground, considering her. Then he moves, hooking a thumb on his belt buckle and closing the distance between them with that arrogant swagger of his. The air thickens as their body heat mingles, and she tries to ignore the droplet of sweat making its way down his neck. “Oh do we now? Forgive me, but you made it quite clear you were done speaking about that _something else_ ,” his tone is low and challenging, as if to call her bluff, as if he knows her so well.

(She knows he is talking about Neal, and hates him for once again seeing through her so easily. Because he’s right, she doesn’t want to talk about Neal. But to hell if she’s going to be so predictable.)

“Well, maybe I want to talk about it now,” she says through clenched teeth.

His mouth thins. “Well, maybe I no longer do.”

She snaps back as if slapped and old fears whisper in the back of her mind.

_Never enough to make them stay._

_Too much work to stay with something so broken._

He immediately softens, reaching out to touch her, but changing his mind at her look. “Emma. I didn’t mean it like that, love. I’m just…I’m sometimes remiss in remembering that I’ve spent so long in solitude, and my gentlemanly graces escape me. Begging your pardon. I’m foul company tonight.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Ah, but it is. I’ll not push you -- that’s a promise. If time’s what you need, time’s what I’ll give. We’ve got plenty of it here, in any case,” he teases as he sweeps a hand towards the jungle surrounding them, and she can’t stop her smile. The odd comfort of him washes through her, and she finds herself welcoming it. He always seems to adjust his orbit just as she needs it. It’s kind of nice.

Silence falls, and she knows she should probably head back to camp before her parents start to worry. But leaving him to fix a broken ship all on his own didn’t seem right. Just because someone is used to solitude doesn’t mean it’s good for them to be alone, a concept she was all too familiar with.

“Can I give you a hand?”

His mouth ticks up in a half smile at that, eyes again warm on hers. He turns to scan the deck, hand scratching absently at the spot behind his ear. “How are you with a needle and thread?”

“Oh, what, because I’m a woman I get sewing duty?”

“More that you have two hands, and those sails aren’t going to mend themselves. Unless you, you know…,” he gestures theatrically as if casting a spell. He’s ridiculous and idiotic and she will not encourage him by laughing.

“Just give me the damn needle,” she sighs, attempting to appear stern. It’s a struggle.

“As you wish, Swan.”

\+ + + +

_It’s later -- much later -- after Wicked Witches and curses and authors, she learns the stories of his various marks. The family crest he drunkenly tried to burn off after Liam’s death. A tentacle to remind him of his betrayal of Ursula. All the times he ran afoul of the whip (a smart mouth and a sense of honor do not always pair well). She gently drifts her lips over each one as he quietly tells its story, willing comfort into the long-scarred skin._


End file.
